She smirks, flips a middle finger at me, and walks off.
I’m free of her at last, but I can’t go to the room yet since Sloane will be asleep—not that I’d want to go there if she was awake. I took the couch last night, which didn’t improve the situation between us. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I can’t pick up where we left off last summer, not when she’d be thinking it meant something. Not when I know I’d be extracting myself again at the trip’s end, which is the kind of shit my father and brother would do.
I go to the lounge chairs by the pool and watch the sun slowly emerge from behind Diamond Head, thinking about what a messed-up situation this is. All the secrets weigh on me even more than they did yesterday.
Babysitting my brother’s pain-in-the-ass girlfriend is not what I need right now.
I think of her running in the dark by herself and stifle a quiet groan. And telling me she could fight ten guys at once when she barely hits my rib cage. My brother has brought home some troubling women before, but Drew Wilson is—hands down—the worst.
An hour later we’re seated at breakfast when Drew strolls up, her plate from the buffet heaped to overflowing with carbohydrates.
“Well, good morning, Joshua, Sloane,” she says with exaggerated cordiality, setting her plate down across from Sloane and pulling out a chair. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
“I have a philosophical objection to buffets,” I reply.
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not even fully seated and you’ve managed to make breakfast dull,” she says. “What’s the problem? Too much pleasure?”
“It’s a waste of food,” I tell her. “Half of it ends up in the trash.” I know she won’t understand. It’s not as if this buffet is actually taking food out of other people’s mouths. It’s just easier not to see it. It’s easier not to think about the kids at the camp, how one breakfast like this would be something they’d remember the rest of their lives.
Drew gives me the most exaggerated smile possible as she shoves half a chocolate croissant in her mouth. “I plan to eat way more than normal this week if it makes you feel any better. They won’t be throwing out that much.”
“American excess is repellent to people who’ve actually witnessed true poverty,” Sloane says, looking pointedly at Drew’s plate, her voice rife with condescension.
“Oh, yeah?” Drew asks, her eyes darting from the expensive purse hanging off the back of Sloane’s chair to the mug in her hands. “How’s that oversized cappuccino, by the way? American excess is often quite tasty, I find.”
Excellent. Sloane has decided to be as judgmental as possible, and Drew has decided to bait her. Just what this shitshow of a trip needs.
My parents arrive with plates from the buffet, oblivious to the growing tension at the table, and my mother pulls out her trusty guidebook—Oahu, The Adventure of a Lifetime—which she opens before sliding it my way.
“The hike for today is called Pillboxes,” she says. “There are these small military bunkers built into a mountain. Amazing views.”
The Baileys have never taken a relaxed family trip once so this doesn’t surprise me, but the trail looks steep as shit. Not impossible, but also nothing my mother should be attempting at the moment.
“Mom,” I say carefully, “this looks like a lot to bite off. Maybe today can be more about relaxation?”
“I’m fine,” she says, refusing to meet my eye. “I think that first picture is deceptive.”
I look to my father for backup. He’s the last person I want to be siding with, but desperate times call for desperate measures. He’s too busy checking his email to notice.
Sloane taps on her watch with a frown. “I may have to bow out. I scheduled a manicure for ten.”
Drew’s eyes cut to mine and she smirks. Oh, so the buffet is ‘American excess’, her expression says, but not a manicure in the hotel spa? Her gaze flicks to Sloane’s wrist. Not that $400 smartwatch? I knew she wasn’t going to let this go, and what sucks is, she has a point.
“Dad,” I say, willing my voice to be calm, “what are your thoughts?”
He glances from me to the book and sighs. “Beth, Josh is right. We’ll take a look when we get there, but let’s think about just going to the beach instead.”
A shadow comes over my mother’s face. I want that shadow not to confirm every one of my suspicions. She flicks it away soon enough, but I can’t quite forget I saw it.
And in the meantime, Sloane is looking between me and Drew again, as if we are an exceedingly difficult equation she’s determined to answer. “I’ll reschedule my manicure,” she says. “It’s fine.”
Sunlight strikes the table in a blinding flash of heat and several birds swoop in, attempting to steal food from the plates. My father ignores it all, back on his phone, and my mother, for once, can’t summon the energy to shoo them away. Sloane, on the other hand, jumps up from the table as if the three small birds are something out of a Hitchcock movie and pulls antibacterial gel from her pocket.
And Drew is laughing at the whole thing, licking chocolate from her perfect lips.
I close my eyes, wondering if there’s any way to escape our luxurious vacation and just go back to work.
6
DREW
We are taken by van—I ride in front this time, which makes sense because a) carsickness and b) I’m the dateless fifth wheel on a couples’ outing. Beth has the driver drop us off in Kailua, which isn’t even the same town where our hike begins, insisting the walk will be scenic. It’s a lot for anyone, and Beth just finished her final round of chemo two months ago. I don’t understand why she’s driving herself so hard—certainly, they’ve got the money to come back later on when she’s feeling better if there’s something she regrets missing out on.
For twenty minutes, we walk past white sand and blue, blue sea with two small looming mountains jutting out of the water just ahead—the Mokulua Islands, per Beth and her guide book. Everyone but me is sipping their water—I chose not to bring any solely because Joshua reminded me to, which irked me. Hopefully, the Sour Patch Kids I brought instead will be a decent substitute.
We turn off the main road to face the mountain at last. It’s undeniably beautiful, those jagged green cliffs going up and up—and I have no desire to go even a step farther. My only hope of getting out of this involves convincing everyone not to climb.
“That mountain is steep,” I suggest.
“Unlike most mountains,” says Josh, even more snide than usual, and I picture him pinned beneath me with my hands around his neck.
Drew, I can’t breathe, he’d say.
I know, I’d reply. All part of my long-range plan to steal your silver.
“I wouldn’t mind just sitting on the beach instead,” says Sloane. When Jim and Beth agree with her, relief whistles through me. I’m going to get out of this and I’ll never have to admit anything to Joshua.
“I’m happy to do whatever you guys want,” I chime in.
“I’m going to hike it,” Joshua says to me, eyes holding a gleam that is perhaps twenty percent more evil than their normal gleam. He pulls out one of the four water bottles he stashed in his daypack and splashes some on the back of his neck. “But you’re probably tired after this morning, so you should definitely rest.”
My arms fold over my chest. “I’m not the least bit tired.” This is absolutely a lie. I took so much ibuprofen this morning I risked an overdose, and I still feel like shit.
He sweeps a hand toward the trail in a you first gesture, and I stomp up the dirt path. The trail is steep as hell. I move as fast as possible to get away from him, but he catches me with ease, his long legs unfairly capable of taking three strides for every one of mine.
“How’s it going, slugger?” he asks about five minutes in.
“Amazing,” I reply, quickening my pace. The sun is beating down on me and my shirt is glued to my skin. I really wish he’d give me one of the water bottles from his daypack. “How ’bout you? I m
ean, at your age…don’t you have to worry about stuff breaking?”
“I’m thirty-two,” he huffs.
“Huh,” I reply a little breathlessly as I hoist myself up a step so large I have to hold onto a tree to manage it. “I’d have guessed older. Maybe it’s just because you and Sloane seem so dead inside.”
“Speaking of old,” he says, as our steps fall into a rhythm again, “nice fanny pack. Did it come with a motorized scooter or do you have to buy that separate?”
“It’s for my inhaler, asshole.”
He’s silent for one blissful moment, and there’s no sound but the small rocks slipping under our shoes. When he speaks again, his voice is absent its normal disdain. “How bad is your asthma? You seemed fine this morning.”
“Don’t get all excited,” I say. “This hike isn’t hard, so it’s unlikely to kill me off.”
“There’s still time,” he says cheerfully. “My mom has planned a lot of hikes.”
I stifle a laugh and then sigh heavily as he barrels right past the lookout point—trust Joshua to make this hike as unenjoyable as possible—and in the process of giving him the finger I accidentally make eye contact with two girls walking down the hill. I see recognition in their faces, and my spine stiffens. It’s the fucking hair again. I might as well wear a neon sign that says Notice Me.
“Excuse me,” says one of them from behind us, and I force myself to turn, ignoring the slow sinking in my stomach. “Are you Drew Wilson?”
There are two ways an interaction like this can go: I politely tell them I’m in the middle of a hike and can’t stop, and they’ll spend the rest of their lives talking about what a bitch I am to anyone who will listen. Or I can give them everything they want, and they’ll talk about how nice I was, though they thought I’d be thinner.
It’s really not even a choice.
I plaster a cheerful smile on my face, while Josh’s eyes bore into me from behind with the power of a thousand suns. “Yes, hi.”
They ask for a picture. A separate one for each of them, and I oblige while they ask me questions about the next album—about which I know nothing aside from the fact it will suck. They show no signs of leaving until Josh makes impatient noises behind me.
“Is he your boyfriend?” one of them asks, sweeping her appreciative gaze over him.
“Him? No. Satan isn’t allowed to take a companion on the Earth’s surface, as far as I know.”
They leave at last, and when I turn back up the hill, Joshua is standing there with a brow raised. He hands me a bottle of water, thank God. “Satan isn’t allowed to take a companion, huh?”
“So I’ve heard,” I reply carelessly. “I’m sure you’re more familiar with the rules.”
His tongue darts out to tap his upper lip. I see a glimmer of amusement in his eyes, but he stoically manages to repress it. He nods at the girls and sighs. “They’re already posting those ridiculous pictures online.”
I shrug. “Do you want one too? You can post it on Instagram and talk about how I was nice, but then mention I’m not as pretty in real life.”
He looks back at me, his eyes brushing over my face. Lingering on my mouth. “I don’t have Instagram.”
I smack my forehead. “Oh my god. Are you serious? Tell me how old you are again, because even my great-grandfather has Instagram. Although he fills up his IG with infographics about the Russian Revolution, so he doesn’t get a lot of likes.”
He grunts and starts up the hill again. “Why the fuck would I want Instagram?”
“You could post pictures of Somalia,” I suggest. “Here’s a pretty sunset. Here’s a child with a gunshot wound.”
“Sunsets only happen once a day,” he says darkly. “So it’d be option two more than often not. Glad you find it so amusing, however.”
“Jesus,” I sigh, scrambling after him. “Has anyone ever suggested you lighten up?”
Rocks go sliding downhill as his feet turn toward me. “Certain things bother me.”
“I’ve noticed,” I reply, taking another sip of water. “Mild pleasure, societal advancement, what else?”
He turns to look at me with an expression that makes me feel an inch tall. “Spoiled princesses making fun of other people’s misfortunes,” he says, and then he stalks off, leaving me in a haze of dust and mild regret.
Six would have laughed at my joke, I think defensively, trying to ignore the small knot in my stomach that suggests Joshua might have a point.
He’s waiting at the first bunker, studying the view as if he plans to lay siege to it later.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly because I really hate apologizing. “I was being an asshole.”
He looks at me for a long moment. “Yeah, you were. But you’re not the first person who’s suggested I could stand to lighten up.”
“So we were both wrong? That’s what you’re saying?”
His mouth moves, slightly. “Yes, exactly. That’s what I was saying.”
“Smile,” I instruct, holding up my phone to take a picture of him for Beth. He folds his arms across his chest, his mouth flat, and the only part of his face that moves is a single eyebrow saying Why are you taking my picture? I only stand for photos when required to do so by the US Passport Office.
I take the photo anyway, just to spite him. He looks like a brooding, virile Viking on the cusp of pillaging a village or declaring prima nocta.
“Though you’re hideous,” I tell him, “you could potentially take a decent photo if you were capable of smiling.”
He raises that brow once more. “You think I’m not capable of smiling?”
“You’re not even capable of smiling right now when I’m accusing you of being unable to do it. Your face only has two expressions—mildly disgusted and really disgusted.”
There’s a low, warm noise from his throat. One I might almost confuse with a quiet laugh. I want to not be pleased by that. “I wouldn’t confuse the way I look at you with the way I look at everyone,” he says, turning up the hill and heading toward the second bunker.
Asshole.
For ten more minutes, we climb, and when we finally reach our destination, I’m absolutely spent and ready to throw myself from the peak and hope for the best. Instead, I turn and grab the first foothold to scale its side.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he demands.
I continue to climb, though the footholds are far apart and I’m not especially gifted with upper body strength.
“I want a selfie from the top,” I reply, “so I can prove how healthy I am and show up all those dickheads saying I need rehab.”
“That definitely sounds healthy,” he mutters, following me up with no sign of effort.
When I reach the top, I take in the view. The ocean is the deepest blue imaginable, a royal blue crayon plucked straight from a new box and brought to life. In the distance, a kayak moves over the water toward the Mokulua Islands, small as a grain of rice from here. I close my eyes for a moment and picture it—the only sound the roar of the wind, no one gawking at me. There are times when I think I could live like that, on some barren island alone. At least then I could fall down without half the world saying I need rehab, or have some premenstrual bloating without TMZ suggesting I’m pregnant.
My eyes open and I discover him standing way too close. “What are you doing?”
“Just making sure you don’t fall off,” he replies dryly. “I understand you do that sometimes.”
I lower my phone and stare at him balefully. I thought he might be the one person alive who hadn’t heard about Amsterdam. “You’ve been saving that up all morning, haven’t you?”
He gives a small laugh. “Since the start of the trip, actually.”
My mouth moves and I struggle to hold it still. “Well, I’m glad we’ve gotten it out of the way.”
And then I laugh. Joshua is still a fucking asshole. If he hadn’t made the comment about the silver, I’d probably want to be his friend anyway.
7
> JOSH
Man is not as evolved as he’d like to think—when it comes to sex, we are essentially puppets, wired by our primitive brains to seek reproduction of the species at the expense of all else. Infants will stare at a photo of a symmetrical face longer than they’ll stare at a photo of their own mother. Show men around the world a variety of female bodies, and no matter what they claim to like, they physically respond to the exact same proportions.
So, yes, I did a double take the first time I saw Drew Wilson on the cover of Maxim. I imagine the number of straight men who did a double take at that cover was—well, all of them. It’s meaningless that the mere sight of her was enough to take me directly from thinking about the surgery I’d be performing that evening to thoughts of bare skin and soft lips and breasts barely contained by a little pink dress.
But that doesn’t mean I have to do a double take every time she comes into view.
I’m poolside—forced into a chair next to my father, who’s droning on about the evils of managed care—when Drew appears. She’s in a t-shirt and shorts instead of some skimpy bikini, thank God, long blonde hair piled beneath a hat.
My mother pats the chair beside her. “You look like you need a nap, young lady,” she says affectionately. Drew seems to make her motherly side go into hyperdrive, for reasons I can’t understand.
Drew smiles but there’s something uncertain in it, something fragile. It’s almost as if she doesn’t know how to react when someone is kind.
“I was up before five today to run,” she says. “Between that and the hike, I’m pretty beat.”
Sloane, reading beside me, stiffens. I didn’t mention to her that I ran with Drew, since she’s already weirdly jealous. She seems to be putting it together now.
“Well, you sit down here and take a little rest then, hon,” says my mom.
Drew nods and then her hands go to her waistband and I stiffen in sudden panic. Drew is removing her clothes and my God that’s nothing I need to see. I know I should stop looking, for my own sanity, but I just don’t.
The Devil And The Deep Blue Sea Page 3